


One Across

by FranceBe4Pants



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Arthur Has a Cat, College AU, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Shakespeare, Stress Baking, so much pining tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 17:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FranceBe4Pants/pseuds/FranceBe4Pants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Eames quotes Shakespeare a lot, Arthur bakes his problems away, and like all good stories, it starts with a balcony scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Across

“ _ My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite _ .”

Arthur blinks. “What the fuck?”

He’s standing on a balcony, fleeing the pressing heat from the party  behind him, and this guy is quoting fucking Romeo and Juliet. He looks down. Sand- colored hair and broad shoulders make him think fuck, he’s hot before hanging over the rails. He yells; “It’s too late for Shakespeare!” It earns him a laugh from beneath.

It’s the usual new year’s party and Arthur was dragged into it by Ariadne and Dom. As soon as he entered the room, filled with over-the-top rude frat boys grinding on each other, he already wanted to leave. Now this guy is standing below the balcony, quoting fucking Shakespeare at him like they’re some high school’s cheesy attempt at breaking heteronormativity.

The guy looks up at him, grins and reveals a pair of crooked teeth that are somehow one of the hottest things Arthur has ever seen. He loops an arm around the bars of the balcony and hoist himself up, until he and Arthur are on eye level. Talk about unexpected.

“Well, hello there.” He swings his legs over the barrister like an old-school action hero and stares at Arthur. Judging by his rosy cheeks, not-too-sharp eyes and lopsided grin, he’s drunk. Arthur has never met a person before that quotes Shakespeare when they’re drunk. Ariadne is an angry drunk, Mal is  _ definitely _ a reckless drunk, but this? Is there a name for this type of drunkenness?

The literature drunk smiles. “You’re awfully pretty, love,” and Arthur doesn’t usually go around stereotyping people, but the fact that he’s British does seem to be a plausible excuse for him quoting Shakespeare. The guy keeps coming closer. Arthur is just determining whether he should knock him out or not, when a broad hand strokes his cheek. He ducks his head and blushes at the feeling of calluses on his skin. This guy might be drunk, he’s still about 86% hotter than all the people Arthur has seen before in his life. 

“Look at that,” the guy murmurs. “What a surprise. Wouldn’t have taken you for the blushing type, darling.” Arthur looks up, into  gray -blue eyes and smiles carefully. “Well, you did just quote Romeo and Juliet at me.”  

The guy throws his head back laughing and Arthur swallows at the long lines of his throat. “You’re a delight,”  gray eyes sparkle and Arthur can’t help himself. “No, I’m Arthur, just Arthur.” The guy laughs again, harder and Arthur joins. That might’ve been the worst joke ever, right now it’s the funniest thing he has said since the day he was born.

The guy wipes away tears and offers him his hand. “Eames.” Arthur lifts an eyebrow. “Like the designer chair?” The guy, Eames, smiles again. “Arthur, like the king whose queen cheated on him with his best friend?” Arthur looks down, blushing. Eames’ hand catches his chin, forcing him to look into those  gray eyes again.

“S’alright, didn’t mean it like that, darling.”

Arthur licks his lips, helplessly turned on by broad hands and shoulders and biceps fighting against fabric. Eames makes a sound low in his throat, surges forward and kisses him. Arthur clamps one hand around one of those shoulders to maintain his balance.

Eames’ lips are soft and firm. He tastes a little bit like beer, but what Arthur mostly tastes is something that reminds him of damp earth after a rainfall. It makes him  _ want _ .

Then Ariadne loops her head around the door. “Arthur, we were looking for y-Oh my god!” She leaves with a slamming door behind her. Arthur pulls back. Eames pets his hair a little bit, clearly sensing his embarrassment. “So, love, that was fun, but I really think I’ll leave now. You should go and find your friend.” He gives Arthur a mock salute, and jumps off the balcony. 

That’s how Arthur meets Eames.

***

Arthur forgets all about the kiss in the next couple of days. 

He meets Eames again in a mandatory floor meeting. It's so boring Arthur has the urge to set something on fire, just for entertainment. Then Eames walks in, and suddenly it feels like someone scraped their keys down the side of his heart. He follows the curve of broad shoulders and strong arms while the tenant talks about floor rules and noise complaints. Looking away when  gray eyes catch his, bemused, he pretends to be interested in rules about public parking. 

See, in a normal situation, Arthur would use these meetings to observe his  neighbors . To see who is crazy and who is going to play music way too loud at 3 AM. Now he’s distracted by this asshole opposite of him who is so attractive Arthur is offended by it.  

It's a mistake, because he notices the fact that  his  neighbors are  _ really fucking crazy _ , way too late.

It all starts when he’s standing by the coffee table. There’s a couple sitting next to it in plastic chairs and glaring at each other. Every time the guy makes an attempt at moving she hisses at him. Every time she tries to move he hisses at her. Arthur gets his coffee and makes sure to stay the hell away from them. He meets a lost-looking frat boy at the pastries who asks him questions that give Arthur the urge to shoot him.

“Do you think life is just one big hallucination, caused by oxygen?” the guy muses, and Arthur just wants to get the hell out of here, just wants a normal set of  neighbors . Too bad the universe has different plans for him. He meets a girl that tells him she’s a chemistry major. She seems cool, but could be capable of cooking meth, judging by the look in her eyes. The other occupants of the floor are an entire football team, a hyperactive social studies major covered in feathers and, so it appears, Eames. Who, at that moment, decides to smile and wave at Arthur like he’s some long-lost friend. Arthur scowls and feels something akin to a blush under his skin.

It’s then that he decides to ignore Eames as much as possible. It shouldn't be that hard, anyway.

***

Ten minutes into his Philosophy of Law class he’s already decided that this must be the worst day of his life. First of all, his professor is a dick. Not a little bit of an asshole, no, a full-fledged jerk. His smile gives Arthur both the creeps and the urge to shank him with something sharp and pointy.  His name is doctor Nash and he’s teaching what had the potential to be Arthur’s  favorite subject. And then he hasn’t even talked about his  neighbor .

Eames grins and leans a little bit closer towards him. “Well, I’m sure deep down under all those sadistic energy layers he’s probably nice.”

Arthur is contemplating the universe’s tendency to throw him into terrible encounters with Eames. Is it bad karma? He should find out and hurry up to fix it, because from the three hundred and forty-four seats in this lecture  theater , Eames has chosen the seat next to him. Yes, Arthur has counted them.

“Why are you even taking this class,” he says, ignoring the question mark in  favor of his annoyance.  

“I’m expanding my horizons.”

Arthur snorts. “Bullshit. What’s your major, anyway?” Eames looks at him,  gray eyes focused on his face, and Arthur feels a flash of heat at the base of his spine. Fuck, time to focus, c’mon.

“English Lit.”

Arthur gapes at him. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Eames blinks at him. “You’re awfully foul-mouthed for a  law student, dear. That’s not really going to hold up in court.”

Arthur turns away from him and grips his pen a little bit tighter.  “Get fucking lost, Eames.”

***

It’s  seven -thirty on a Saturday morning. Arthur hates every form of deity above for the fact that he’s awake. He groans, scrubs a hand over his face and decides that the best thing for him to do is to get out of bed and look for coffee. On his way to the kitchen, he throws on a t-shirt and drags himself through the hallway which is drowned in scent of coffee and toast. Ariadne has sought refuge in his apartment.

He steps into the kitchen and falls down on a chair. His face rests on the table, and he hears Ariadne doing her thing in his kitchen. A small hand lands on his shoulder, and he groans.  

“I forgot how eloquent you are in the morning,” He looks up and Ariadne winks at him. “What I didn’t forget, though, is that coffee is always the solution.” She starts the coffee machine. Arthur supposes he could make his own, even if that would need moving, doing stuff and other things he’s not capable of before caffeine. Plus, the coffee machine always seems to like Ariadne better anyway. They push the same buttons, same beans and milk, but Ariadne’s is always without fail, better. He suspects magic.

“Mal called.” she says, handing him a mug. “She ‘asked’  if we could meet Dom today.” she adds, trying to be casual and missing it by  miles .

Ah, the famous Dom. Lately, all that Mal could bear to talk about was Dominic Cobb. ‘Dom this’ and ‘Dom that.'  Arthur has threatened to staple her mouth shut many times, without success. Every conversation makes him more curious, but he puts off meeting Dom because he doesn’t want to see Mal interacting with him. Couples give him hives. 

“I take it we don’t have a choice?”

Ariadne takes a sip of her own coffee. “Obviously. Toast?”

That’s how Arthur finds himself thirty minutes later in the filthiest KFC he’s ever seen. Mal hangs off the arm of a  tall-ish guy with blond hair and fucking elbow patches, and Arthur inwardly laughs his fucking ass off, because Dominic Cobb is a fucking  _ nerd _ .

Less is said of the guy sitting opposite of him because that is fucking  _ Eames _ . Shit, is he ever safe from this asshole?

He’s a shirt on that is so ugly it should be prohibited by  law , and his face wears a douchebag grin that Arthur hates. With everybody fawning over Dom and his dorky, all-American charm, he gets the time to study Eames elaborately.

He sees full lips and a killer jawline framed by stubble. That, plus the broad shoulders challenging the fabric of the horrendous shirt, and the tattoo peeking out of the bottom of his left sleeve, make Arthur  realize that this guy is so his type it’s almost offensive. A little bit because he seems to be the best friend of his best friend’s boyfriend, other is because he’s Eames, a fucking asshole who kissed Arthur once and then pretended like it was nothing. Like he forgot all about it.

“Hey,” Eames says, pulling Arthur from his, no doubt rude staring, words tumbling rough from his tongue like he’s had ten cigarettes too many. No one in his personal history had ever made Arthur feel so  off-kilter by saying one word, spoken in his direction a hundred times a day. Ah, also angry. Don’t forget angry. 

Which is why Arthur wants to punch a wall when twenty minutes into the conversation, Eames blurts out; “God, you’re an asshole,” while scrubbing a broad hand over his face. Arthur gapes at him. “Excuse me?” Eames grins. “You heard me,” smiling with just enough attitude to make Arthur want to kick him in his pretty, pretty face.

“No  offence , darling, I mean look at you, with your slicked-back hair and the waistcoats and the  _ hands.” _

Wait, what? This guy is crazy. 

“-But you are a condescending asshole nonetheless.” Eames finishes. He clears his throat and leans his chin in his hands. “I mean, not that the whole wannabe-lawyer look doesn’t make you look fuckable and  shit ,” he smirks and it’s a filthy, filthy smirk that is giving Arthur ideas, but then he winks and, yes, this is it, the sign from above he was waiting for, Arthur is going to tackle him and-

Mal grabs his arm and gives him a warning glare. Dom frowns at Eames. “Okay guys, let’s keep it family friendly.” At the same time, Ariadne hits Eames on the arm. “Watch it, jerk, we’re in public.” 

“If you only knew how much I want to beat you with this coffee cup,” Arthur says, ignoring Mal’s iron grip and Ariadne flailing in the background.

“I hate you and your fucking waistcoats so bloody much,” Eames snaps. Arthur is touched.  “Do you know how many times I've already wanted to punch that lovely face of yours in the, what, half an hour we know each other?" 

Arthur grits his teeth. Oh, it’s on.  

His chair scrapes over the floor when he pushes it back and he and Eames are nose-to-nose in a flash, glaring at each other. The warm breath and smell of smoke and pine wood are kind of distracting, but Arthur is not going to let this son of a bitch say  shit like that to him. He’s so pissed he doesn’t even pretend to make smart decisions anymore, he just grabs Eames’ broad wrist to get this asshole to leave him alone. “Guys, contain yourself,” Dom whines and Arthur grits through his teeth; “I am containing myself. I‘m choosing not to break his fucking nose, aren’t I?”

Eames squints his eyes and bends his head to look at Arthur. He looks like he wants to hit someone and for a split second Arthur thinks;  _ do it, c’mon, give me an excuse to wreck you _ \- but Eames sighs and pulls his wrists loose.  Arthur is still panting when the guy has already left the restaurant. Everyone else sits in silence. (They later compare it to watching a train wreck, because, well, it was one.)

"Well," Ariadne says, "that was violent."

"And awkward," Dom adds, squinting. "Please not forget awkward."

Arthur combs his fingers through his hair. “I’m done here.” 

***

The next two weeks, Arthur keeps seeing Eames everywhere. At coffee dates with Dom and Mal, in Ariadne’s apartment, in class, in the hallway because he lives  _ opposite of him _ . That arrogant smile haunts him in his dreams, followed by  gray eyes and strong hands. If the guy wasn’t so attractive, Arthur would’ve punched him like, yesterday.

Three days after a fight in which Eames backed him up against a wall in Ari’s apartment and was so close Arthur could either kiss or hit him, Dom shoots him a text which just says **ride is waiting outside** . When he thumps down the stairs, Eames is parked on the curb in an old blue car. His hair is messed up by the wind, and he's wearing a hideous grin of satisfaction that is already giving Arthur a reason to punch him and they haven’t even exchanged words yet. Dom, Arthur reflects darkly, is sneaky son of a bitch with an apparent death wish. Probably the reason why Mal is so attracted to him.

“What’s with the frowning, petal?”

“Just you.”

Eames grins, easy and  cat -like and Arthur feels heat coiling in his stomach. Shit, he doesn’t have the time for this.

He has three papers to write, three papers he thought he could write this afternoon before Dom sent Eames to fetch him. With him near, Arthur’s chances on concentrating have sunken to about, -15000 %, a rough estimation. The bastard appears to read his mind because Eames curls his fingers in a come-hither gesture. “Let’s go, darling. I can’t wait here all day.”

Arthur grits his teeth on the stream of swear words that are locked behind his molars, just waiting to escape, and starts walking. He would like to yell something along the lines of “fuck you,” but thinking about Eames and fucking in the same sentence is a dangerous course of action. Partly because he does really wants to fuck Eames, and partly because he really wants Eames to go fuck himself. It’s a problem.

Eames just sighs and lets the car drive at a footpace next to Arthur. “Hop in, the happy couple is about to be murdered by Ariadne if we leave them alone with her for a too long period of time.” Arthur snorts because it’s awfully true, but keeps walking nonetheless.

“We’re going to study. Do you even study, or do you just bullshit your way through every test you got?”

"No one earns their degree on bullshitting alone, petal. I maintain a healthy ratio of about, 5:2. In the  favor of bullshit, of course.” Eames grins like he’s proud and Arthur wants-Arthur wants a lot of things, but neither of those things will help him to finish those three papers waiting for him, so he just keeps walking. "I’m surprised. You’ve been known to be a bullshitting champion. "

"I've also been known to wear brown trousers, doesn't mean it's all I do." Arthur snorts again and Eames looks at him with something in his eyes that makes Arthur itchy right under his skin.

“What’s your  favorite film?”

Arthur almost walks into a lamppost. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Look, could you just get in the car?” Eames sounds frustrated. Arthur combs a hand through his hair and decides walking  seven blocks to Dom’s apartment is a bit too ambitious. “I suppose I might as well,” he sighs and jumps in. Putting on his seatbelt he starts to feel uncomfortable with Eames in such close proximity. They drive in silence for a while until Arthur clears his throat.

“ _ Seven Psychopaths _ .”

Eames almost drives into an eighty-year old woman and lets out an impressive stream of swears while the woman lets out an equally impressive amount of death threats. Arthur is shocked for a moment.

“Your  favorite film is  _ Seven _ _ Psychopaths _ ?”

Arthur raises an eyebrow. “Uh, yes? What’s yours?”

Eames grins. “ _ 10 Things I Hate About You _ .”

Arthur falls back into his seat, laughing, because he knows he’s an asshole and at the age of 21, he’s just chosen to embrace it. “You have to be kidding me.”

Eames doesn’t take his eyes off the road. “Why, because I look like a big, bad motherfucker? I study English Lit, mate. It’s the cleverest adoption of the Bard’s work out there. Plus, young Heath Ledger.” Arthur hums. Young Heath Ledger is a gift from the heavens. Eames might not be that awful after all.

“You want to tell me what your  favorite food is?” Eames asks and Arthur whips his head to the left. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Eames pouts. “Getting to know you. I know we started off on the wrong foot, but I thought if I just got to know you-”

“You might think I’m less of an asshole,” Arthur finishes the sentence for him. “That could work both ways, actually. Tandoori chicken.” Eames hums.

“Broccoli.” Arthur pulls a face. “Really?” It earns him a snort from the left. “Yes, really.”

They pull up in front of Dom’s apartment building and are bickering about whether avocados are a fruit (Arthur) or a vegetable (Eames) when they step inside.

Dom’s apartment is a mess of models of buildings, paper to build models of buildings, blueprints and sketches of models of buildings, and books about learning how to make models of buildings. Ariadne waves at them from atop of a stack of books on bridges and Dom himself is sprawled out across the couch, Mal draped over him.

“Had a good ride?” Dom asks, eyes gleaming and Arthur solemnly declares him an evil genius here and there. Eames grins and drapes an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. “It was lovely.” Arthur quirks an eyebrow.

“If you don’t remove that arm in three seconds, I’m going to rip it off you.”

The arm disappears.

***

The morning after their study session at Dom’s apartment, Arthur spots Eames across the hall and promptly drops five books on CivPro, because Eames is in his underwear.

Arthur knows he’s staring but just can’t help it with all that tanned skin on display. He can see tattoos and abs and a happy trail that gives him a spontaneous headache.

Eames waves at him with his morning paper and smiles. Arthur blushes a spectacular shade of red and ducks to the floor to pick up his books (and avoid Eames.) When he stands up and glances out of the window, Eames has disappeared.

The doorbell rings.

Arthur looks from the window to the door and back, and again, and again. Fuck. He folds his hands and prays that it’s not Eames, it’s not Eames.

There’s knocking and then a frighteningly familiar voice says; “Darling, do you have any plans on opening this door today, or should I come back tomorrow?”

Fuck. it’s Eames. Arthur stares down at his  pajama -clad thighs and panics. He’s in a neon purple shirt that says  _ Philosophy _ _? Sorry I Kant _ , red plaid pants that he’s owned since high school and his hair probably looks like he just rolled out of bed, because, well, he just rolled out of bed.

The knocking on his door turns up a notch and Arthur hurries to open it, appearance is damned. His  cat hates knocking. She’s already glaring at him from her spot on top of the heater and Arthur’s old cashmere scarf.

Arthur decides to play it safe and whips his head around the door, only to crash with both feet into his shoe rack when he’s faced with Eames’ bare chest.

“Morning, love.” Eames’ amused voice says from above him. “Just for your notice, my eyes are up here.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and looks up. “Mr. Eames. What can I do for you at-” he steps back inside for a moment to glance at the clock, “eight-forty on a Sunday morning?” What the actual fuck. He hopes whatever Eames wants is not too complicated, because he hasn’t had caffeine yet so he’s not that bright, so to speak.

“It looks like they delivered your paper to the wrong address.” Arthur lets out a sigh of relief. Paper. He can do that.

He snatches the paper from where it’s waiting for him in Eames’ stretched out hand. “Thanks.”

Suddenly, the same big hand lands on the door. “Is that a  cat ? You have a  cat ?” Arthur has stopped breathing because Guinevere has decided to leave her throne and Eames is looking at her with something akin to adoration in his eyes, which is Very Not Good because Gwenny hates strangers. Ariadne has the scars to prove it.

He waits for the inevitable swatting, scratching and screaming, but the only thing he hears is Eames’ voice cooing something like “aren’t you a pretty creature, then,” and Gwen. His  cat is purring. His  cat likes Eames. He’s fucked.

Eames picks her up, and the Burman looks tiny curled in those muscled arms. Arthur feels warmth spreading through his chest, because  _ his  _ _ cat _ _ likes Eames _ , likes him so much he’s treated to licks and tiny meows that shouldn’t make Arthur melt the way he does.

“She’s usually not good with strangers,” he says, awe audible in his voice. Eames strokes a broad finger down Gwen’s cheek and Arthur has never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his life.

“She’s beautiful,” he says. “What’s her name?”

“Guinevere.” Arthur answers, blushing another shade of scarlet yet again. He knows it’s stupid, damn his mother and her obsession with anything Arthurian. He opens the door for Eames because it doesn’t look like Gwenny is going to leave his arms anytime soon, and walks into the kitchen.

“Clever. I like it,” Eames says and Arthur’s fingers twitch.

His  neighbor is in his kitchen, wearing nothing but his underwear, and his  cat likes him. Arthur has so many feelings rolling around in his chest it's difficult to breathe. It’s been a confusing morning and it’s not even nine yet. He needs caffeine so badly he’s considering an IV drip while starting up the coffee maker. “Do you want some, too?”

“Do you have tea? I don’t drink coffee,” Eames says absent-mindedly, letting Gwen play with his hand, and that is the cutest thing Arthur has ever seen. He clears his throat. “Of course, no problem,” he says, ignoring the fact that Eames is so English it hurts while not wearing any clothes and cuddling his  cat . He fills the kettle and stares at his poster of  _ Pulp Fiction _ .

Samuel L. Jackson is judging him, he can feel it.

“Nice shirt,” Eames smirks. Arthur is blushing yet again, because Eames speaking to him is a constant reminding of the fact that the guy half naked. It’s frustrating.

“Present from Mal,” he says. Eames hums. “Ah. You and her are rather close, not?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, more concentrated on the way Gwenny is cuddled up against Eames naked chest. He swallows something that could be feelings.

Eames drinks his tea and looks at the film posters that litter Arthur’s kitchen. “So, you like films.” And just like that, they’re talking about books, films and adaptations of the two, bickering about the best writer’s biography, filmed and written. For the first time in the weeks Arthur has known Eames they seem to be comfortable with each other, act like friends. Arthur loves it and hates it all the same, because all he wants to do when Eames curls his fingers around Gwen’s  paw or hides a grin behind his mug, is to kiss him until they’re both breathless. It scares the hell out of him.

When Eames discovers the time (12:34 PM) he swears and hands a protesting Gwen back to Arthur, who tastes disappointment bitter on the roof of his mouth when he moves his tongue over it. “Bye,” he says, leaning against the doorpost.

Eames turns back to him. “ _ Macavity's a Mystery  _ _ Cat _ _ : he's called the Hidden  _ _ Paw _ _ \--For he's the master criminal who can defy the  _ _ Law _ .”

Arthur gapes at him. “What the fuck?”

“T.S Eliot, you heathen,” Eames says, slightly offended. Arthur smirks. “Ah, yes. Didn’t they make a movie about his life?”

Eames tilts his chin and cocks his head. “I see what you’re trying to do, Arthur Levine, and I’m not falling for it. No matter how smashing you look without your charming little suits to protect you from the horrors of the outside world.” While Arthur is still trying to figure out whether he should be offended or flattered, Eames comes closer. He curls a hand around his neck and whispers in his ear; “ _ Thou art too dear for my possessing _ ,” and it’s ridiculous, too dramatic, but Arthur is blushing yet another shade of red anyway, terribly charmed and Eames steps away. “Shakespeare, sonnet 87,”  he says with a sandpaper voice that Arthur wants to wrap himself in and never escape from.

He’s still looking at the door that closed behind Eames ten minutes later, feeling his broad hand and the warmth of his breath on his ear.

He’s so fucked.

***

Finals come knocking on his door. Wait, knocking is an understatement, they waltz Arthur flat. Mal is always keeping tabs on how much he eats, but now takes a page out of Yusuf’s book and hangs up a whiteboard. Arthur finds himself to be a task on her Google Calendar, repeated every day between the hours of eight and ten, twelve and two, six and nine. It's terrifying, and sort of useless, because Arthur tries to eat at least two meals a day. Not that he’s succeeding, but that’s a whole other story.

The mentioned Yusuf is one of Eames friends. Lately, they’ve found themselves being joined by Eames’ (and to some extend, Ariadne’s, she seems to know everyone) friends a lot. A chemistry major named Yusuf, who has seemed to take an interest in Ariadne and two business studies majors, Robert Fischer and Saito. Arthur is not sure whether Saito is a first or a last name, but he’s too intimidated by the guy, and the air of money and grace he seems to carry around, to ask him.

Arthur doesn’t tell anyone, but every time he sees Robert and Eames laughing together, sitting next to each other, casually touching each other’s shoulders, a sharp flash of hurt ghosts through his chest. He scowls and turns back to his  law books. It doesn’t help that Robert’s face looks like it was created by Michelangelo himself, all symmetrical with sharp lines and blue eyes.

“He reminds me of one of those sleek skyscrapers,” Ariadne says while chewing on her pencil. She flips another page of her sketchbook. “Clean lining and minimal use of  color . What’s your deal with him, anyway? Is it the Eames thing?”

Arthur’s hand loses control for a moment and he ends up with a dark blue line all over his case summary. “Fuck,” he swears. An eraser hits his head and he frowns, looking up at Ariadne. She smirks at him from where she’s folded into one of his dining room chairs. “Is it, the Eames thing? Is  _ that  _ what makes you hate him so much?”

Arthur grabs a flashcard from the ever-growing pile next to him. “He likes my  cat .”

Ariadne twirls her pencil through her fingers. “Who, Fischer?”

“Eames,” Arthur mumbles while stroking a finger through Gwen’s fur. The Burman is lying next to him, for once not covering any important work. She purrs a little bit when he taps a  paw with his pinky.

Ariadne glares at her. “No way, she hates strangers.” Arthur shrugs. “All strangers except him, apparently.”

Ariadne drops her sketchbook on the table with a soft thud. “Is that why your crush is so big? Because he likes your  cat ?”

She quirks an eyebrow at the terrified silence that follows. “Oh come on, Arthur, everybody knows about your crush.”

“Eames knows?” He mentally strangles himself, because his voice comes out high and panicky, giving away the exact size of said crush.

“About that-”

The doorbell rings and Ariadne jumps up. Arthur hears her twitter and chatter, figures it’s probably Mal and doesn’t look up from his book when footsteps return to the kitchen.

He does look up when he hears laughter and finds himself with an apartment suddenly full of people. Mal is grinning down at him, hand entwined with Dom’s. Behind them, Arthur can spot Yusuf’s grinning face from where it sticks out above Ariadne’s small frame and-

A sharp meow echoes through the room and Gwen has stuck herself to the leg of Eames’ green jeans. Though  cat nails are the only treatment green jeans deserve, Arthur still stutters through several apologies and tries to pry Gwenny away from Eames’ leg.

“Sorry, I think she’s missed you,” he mumbles. “C’mon Gwenny, why don’t we let go of the nice man’s leg, huh?” She meows and hisses when he touches her  paw , his movements now increasingly more desperate by the second because _ his  _ _ cat _ _ is stuck to Eames’ leg _ .

He’s still fiddling with Gwen while he asks; “What are you all doing here, anyway?”

“Ah, Arthur, always one for a warm welcome,” Eames’ voice is warm and amused. Arthur looks up and suddenly remembers that he’s kneeling on the floor, in a very awkward position, while his damn  cat still refuses to let go of the jeans.

“So, the queen has finally found someone to her taste?” Mal says and lowers herself into one of Arthur’s chairs. “We’re here for the study session,” she adds, emptying the contents of her bag on the already full table. Arthur forgets the  cat and scrambles to save his flashcards. When he has established a neat corner for himself, he goes back to his pet. In the meanwhile, Eames has lowered himself carefully into another chair.

“I could make so many Lancelot jokes right now, you don’t even know.” He says while hauling Gwen into his arms. Arthur stands up from his position on the floor, glad he doesn’t have to humiliate himself further and goes to grab extra chairs for Yusuf and Dom.

The rest of the afternoon is filled with case after case and Arthur has a vicious fight with Mal about his coffee consumption until Eames stands up and says; “Let’s get you a cup of tea then, darling.” Arthur grumpily goes to sit in a chair and allows it. Mal’s eyebrows go crazy and she and Ariadne keep making kissy mouths behind Eames’ back.

Arthur hates his friends.

***

Three days later, he’s trying really hard to forget his upcoming exam on human rights by whistling _ Accidentally In Lov _ e, dancing around in his kitchen and stirring the batter for yet another carrot cake.

Arthur is a stress baker. He’s just going to admit it. Maybe it has something to do with memories of his grandmother, who used to bake with him. He’d turn to her when he felt down and watch her bake cookies, sat on the kitchen counter, swayed his feet and spilled his problems. He always received the best advice. The smell of vanilla and the whirring of the mixer calms him down. He picks up the cinnamon and is just about to put a generous amount in the bowl when the doorbell rings.

Not letting go of the bowl, he walks to the door.

“The whole hallway smells like my mother's living room,” Eames says instead of greeting. He eyes the bowl in Arthur’s hands. “Are you baking?” Then he looks up and his eyes narrow into an angry squint Arthur’s sure he’s seen on Dom’s face before. “When was the last time you slept, huh?”

“Jesus, you sound like Mal,” Arthur says. “Also, don’t ask questions you don’t want to be answered. You like brownies?”

So that’s how Eames ends up in his apartment, eating his weight in baked goods. “Jesus, Arthur,” he moans and it makes Arthur feel a little funny in his stomach. “Contain yourself, Mr. Eames. It’s nothing special.” Eames places his hands along the side of the brownie. “Don’t say things like that when it can hear you!”  

Arthur gets hit in the face with a flood of heat and something that could be affection, if he was willing to study it closer. He’s not.

When Eames has finished his pastry, he brushes the crumbs from his shirt and offers his hand. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

That’s how Arthur ends up in a sun-filled coffee shop, standing opposite of Mal’s dad.

“Uhm, hi,” he says. “Long time no see, Mr.  Miles .”

Mr.  Miles just smiles at him. “Mr. Levine.” Eames makes a choking sound. “Arthur, “ he starts, still a bit breathless, “care to explain how exactly you know my boss?” Arthur turns towards him. “Eames,” he says, disbelief  coloring his voice, “this is Mal’s dad.”

Eames is staring at him with open mouth. “Oh.” His dumbfounded expression should not be cute. Arthur represses a smile.

“Do you know about Arthur’s stress baking habit?” Eames says and Arthur stomps on his foot, all thoughts about cuteness  vaporizing in the air. “We are so not talking about this,” he hisses. Eames just winks at him and continues to gush about Arthur’s ‘heavenly pastries’ and the fact that his baked goods are “better than what they probably serve at Buckingham Palace,  Miles , I’m serious.”  

Twenty minutes and a homemade blueberry-orange muffin later, Arthur walks away with a job offer and a grinning Eames on his arm.

“We’re colleagues.”

“Please shut up.”

***

Arthur drops boxes with pastries in every  flavour off every Friday, straight into the hands of a delighted  Miles . After a few weeks of Eames prattling around and giving him free coffees, he starts to do his homework and prepare his classes at the cafe, which proves to be terribly distracting.

It’s rude, chewing on pens and such while Eames is interacting with customers. He hums while Eames makes coffees,  smiles at him when he’s busting tables and all it does is make Eames daydream about pressing Arthur up a wall.

Sometimes he dares to come over to Arthur’s  favourite table. They argue over literature and  philosophy , books versus films, different types of food and Eames’ atrocious taste in clothes. Well, they don’t argue about that, more Arthur gagging and frowning at the pieces of fabric Eames wraps himself in just to spite him. It’s not the hostile snapping from the beginning, more like comfortable jabs and Eames loves it, wants to keep talking to Arthur forever.

It’s a warm Sunday in April. Eames is reading and Arthur is studying case files with an adorable little frown between his eyebrows. Without looking up from his work, he says; “Don’t look, but there are people staring at us. Table 3, right corner next to the French doors.”

Eames grins. “They’re probably looking at my jacket,” he says and stands up to wrestle himself out of his jacket. The shirt he’s wearing underneath is something his sister picked out for him, and even uglier than the monstrosity that is the sea green tweed jacket with bright pink elbow patches that he’s taking off now. He’s saved it especially for Arthur, who takes one look at Eames’ shirt and groans.

“If you don't remove that shirt immediately, the print is going to blind me.” As a response to Eames’ eyebrow wiggle he just rolls his eyes.”Christ, get your mind out of the gutter."

Eames decides to just wink, re-tie his apron around his waist and serve Yusuf, who is waving at him from the bar. He slips back behind the espresso machine when Yusuf reaches over the counter and drags him closer by his sleeve. “It’s not as well thought out as you think,” Yusuf tells him, “your devil-may-care, tough guy act.”

Eames raises his eyebrows. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Yusuf dearest.”

“Have you ever thought about just telling him you want to sleep with him?” Yusuf asks. “Because that would mean you could stop with the whole staring and smiling deal, and let me win the betting pool. I need the money, mate. Ariadne wants to go and see the new film with some famous actor I don’t know, but I probably should.”

“I don’t stare,” Eames says while staring at Arthur, who chooses that exact moment to look up. Eames turns his back to him and hands Yusuf his caramel latte.

“Wait, you and Ariadne?”

Yusuf’s complete posture relaxes and a gigantic smile appears on his face. He opens his mouth to no doubt ramble about his recently acquired girlfriend, when someone sticks his wet finger inside Eames' ear and he makes a sound that he will deny being a squick till his dying days. He still rubbing his ear when he turns to the left and is faced with a grinning Robert Fischer. “Good afternoon to you, too, twat.”

Robert is talking to Yusuf, gesturing wildly about taxes, Microsoft Excel and what other boring things business majors encounter every day. Eames turns back to look at Arthur, a  secret pleasure he allows himself every time the  law student walks into his life, only to find out he has left the table.

Eames can’t help but feel a little cold inside. 

***

Eames works in a coffee shop.

Eames works in a coffee shop, but the truth is that he couldn’t care less about coffee. He’s English and thus the fact that tea is the solution to every problem in the world is programmed into his DNA. If you would cut him open, they’d find a stack of used tea bags inside his liver.

Arthur is an American, which means he loves coffee more than the oxygen he breathes in every minute of every day. This seems to be true when he stalks into the cafe, a frown pulling on his eyebrows and slams his hand down on the counter.

"I better have coffee between now and two minutes" he growls, "because it's a the only thing keeping me from setting my apartment on fire and  disemboweling someone with a rusty spoon. "

“Eames, get the man some caffeine,”  Miles says, flipping through the paper and pointing articles out to his daughter. Arthur dumps three carton boxes next to the napkins.

“I hope you can sell this.” He mumbles, avoiding Eames’ eyes. He lifts his bag and lets it hit the counter with a thud that sounds frustrated even to Eames. He picks up  one of the boxes and moans unashamedly. There is no shame when it comes to Arthur’s pastries. It must be some kind of potion. Eames suspects Felix Felicis.

His eyes fall on a book that sticks out the bag that Arthur is now resting his head on. He pulls it out. "I didn't know you read." Eames says, flipping through the dog-eared pages, marked pages full of pencil scribbles. Only then he turns to look at the cover.

“James Joyce?” He was fully prepared to make fun of whatever book Arthur was carrying around, by how can he make fun of Joyce? He hands the book back to Arthur, whose dark eyes are suspicious, obviously expecting some kind of sneer.

He clears his throat. “I love Joyce.  _ ‘His throat ached with a desire to cry aloud, the cry of a hawk or eagle on high, to cry piercingly of his deliverance to the winds. This was the call of life to his soul not the dull gross voice of the world of duties and despair, not the inhuman voice that had called him to the pale service of the altar. An instant of wild flight had delivered him and the cry of triumph which his lips withheld cleft his brain.’ _ ” Arthur is gazing at him with open mouth, a little bit like when his  cat decided to curl up in his arms five weeks ago, and  Eames looks away. “I’m still an English  Lit major, darling. I know my books.”

He hands Arthur his coffee and gives him a brief glance, only to look away immediately when he finds him staring at Eames, eyes focused on God knows what. The frown has disappeared, replaced with a soft smile instead, and Eames feels warm all over.

Arthur stays the whole afternoon, and instead of doing homework he quotes Joyce at him and lets Eames ramble about E.E. Cummings and Dickinson, about Steinbeck and Fitzgerald. They drink tea and eat the raspberry-hazelnut cookies Arthur baked as an answer to six cases he has to  analyse by Thursday and laugh with their head tipped back. Eames wants to crawl inside the moment and never let go.

The sunlight dances over Arthur’s face and Eames wonders if this is what falling in love feels like, if this is what the great writers all muse about. If it is, he’s not completely sure if it hurts or not, but he does understand why people would want to feel like this every second of every day. It’s addictive.

*** 

The thing is, Eames didn’t mean to set his apartment on fire. It just sort of, happened. Unsurprisingly, that argument doesn’t hold up against his tenant, and he’s kicked out anyway.

He shows up in the cafe, dragging nine boxes of books and three gym bags with the rest of his stuff behind him. Miles pats his shoulder and points towards the hall.

Eames is now officially homeless.

The good news is that his day can’t get any worse, and  Miles is gentle with him, even goes as far as feeding him free pastries, to which Eames doesn’t have any objections because they’re Arthur’s. Eames never has any objection to anything Arthur.

The man himself chooses that exact moment to walk into the cafe, balancing a few pastry cartons and his messenger bag on one arm. Eames rushes to help him.

“What’s with all the boxes here ?” Arthur asks, pulling on the strap of his messenger bag. Eames is suddenly very busy with moving the pastries into the display.

“Uhm, they’re mine,” he mumbles, arranging the cookies in a pile that immediately falls apart. When he dares to look at Arthur’s face, it’s resembling that of a confused puppy.

“You’re moving?”

Eames curls a hand around the back of his neck. “I guess? There wasn’t much communication when he kicked me out, petal.”

“You got kicked out?!” The indignation in Arthur’s voice is making Eames feel all sorts of things, starting with embarrassment and ending with affectionate warmth. He begins to clean the already spotless mugs. “Yes, darling. There was a firework incident and I may or may not have set fire to the shower curtain.”

Arthur’s eyes are doing the angry squint thing he picked up from Dom. “Where did the fireworks come from?”

“Yusuf,” Eames says, suddenly fearing for the safety of his friend.

“Of course.”

He turns to look at the place where Eames’ sorry possessions are stacked next to their spare uniforms and coffee beans, at Eames and jumps up. “You could stay at my place!”

Eames drops the three mugs he’s holding. While he’s sweeping the pieces of ceramic into a neat mountain and shoves it away in a place where it doesn’t belong (as far away from the bin as possible), he is already shaking his head, preparing to protest. He sticks his head above the counter. “No bleedin’ way, Arthur.”

“I think it’s a great idea, Eames,”  Miles ' voice carries a tone that is both friendly but also gives the impression that he doesn’t have any choice but the accept the offer. He sighs,  knowing when he’s defeated.

“Do you have room for my books?”

***

Arthur and him living together, it shouldn’t work. It’s probably the worst idea either of them has ever had, but it works, in some mysterious way some things just click. Like, the answers to those crosswords Arthur has lying all around the apartment.

Arthur loves crosswords, or so it seems, and Eames puts his English degree-in-process to good use and helps him with the clues. It’s good practice. “Twenty-eight down:  Secret , concealed. Twelve letters and it has an 'a' in it,” Arthur says, pen in hand.

“Inexplicable,” Eames answers, not even looking up from his book.

He’s been living with him for three weeks now. He brought a hideous rug, just because he’d knew Arthur would hate it. It's bright pink and orange, with mustard details, and his  favourite . He likes how it’s messy, the way the  colours just don’t seem to click together, how it looks almost alive in the afternoon sun. He also likes how Arthur looks at it, like it’s paining him.

Living with Arthur means discovering all his little habits and routines. It means knowing that Arthur is anything but a morning person, and will threaten to beat Eames up if he talks before coffee. It means watching films in the weekend, hearing him spill all kinds of fascinating facts about directors and camera angles. It means that Arthur has a system for the shelving of Eames’ books, which Eames lets him touch. That on itself is already a miracle.

It shouldn’t work, but it does, work. Their  _ whatever _ works, works so well they’ve established a proper routine. They meet each other in the kitchen, argue over whose turn it is to make the coffee (Arthur always wins because he says stuff like “Eames, I will shank you if you don’t let me near the coffee machine in ten seconds,” and Eames backs off), ridicule each other's’ breakfasts (Arthur eats something horribly American, waffles or cinnamon- flavoured cereal.  Eames just mixes oatmeal with granola and milk, tops the whole thing off with peanut butter, and dumps it in the microwave), argue about the state of the world, do the morning crossword together, and go separate ways until dinner. Eames cooks dinner because he’s pretty sure Arthur will set the kitchen on fire if he so much as looks at the stove, and they eat next to each other. Arthur occasionally calls out crosswords hints while Eames reads whatever book has been assigned as homework. They should not fit together but they do, in a crooked and jammed way, like they bend the world in the direction they want to take (instead of the other way around.) Eames is self-aware enough that he  recognises the warm, fuzzy feeling in his chest to be happiness, not some kind of spring allergy.

***

“If you would just jump him, I’d still have some chance of winning from Ariadne in the betting pool,” Robert says. They’re doing homework. Robert’s working on some kind of confusing financial system and Eames is looking for rhetorical devices in  _ Howl. _ Yusuf whacks him right under his ribcage.

“Asshole, they passed the angry-fuckin station ages ago,” he says while erasing an entire paragraph from his lab report.

Robert turns to him, blue eyes a lot softer. “Yes they did,” he smirks while rubbing a hand over Eames’ shoulder. “When are you going to tell him about that other  shit , compadre?” Eames pretends he’s way too engrossed in Allen Ginsberg’s delicious use of metaphors to hear either of them.

The point is, he has thought about it, about telling Arthur exactly how lovely Eames thinks he is, about the way thinking of Arthur warms him from within, how he’s the source of all Eames’ smiles,  secret or not.

He wants to tell him about how he wants to kiss him, to rake his fingers through dark hair until it’s fluffy and gel-free. He wants to unwrap him like a present, whisper sappy things in his ear. He wants to confess he takes the coffee Arthur offers him after they’ve had particularly nasty fights just because it’s paired with hopeful dark eyes that make Eames smile and nod.  He wants to talk for hours about the way Arthur looks when he’s lying on the carpet, feet in the air and covered in sunlight. The way everything in the house seems to revolve around him, even Eames' stuff, like they’re all sunflowers and Arthur is the sun.

Don’t get him started on the way Arthur’s eyes light up when Eames does so much as mention the word ‘film’, how it pains him to see dark circles and ink stains and the way he stubbornly frowns when he’s so stuck on a problem he has to go outside and run circles around the park for a bit.

Three days after the conversation with Robert and Yusuf, Eames muses if he has read too much poetry. If Shakespeare's sonnets and Keats’ sweeping declarations of love are the reason for this itching urge to grab Arthur by his bony shoulders, shake him and yell that he is the bright thing in Eames’ life, his mind’s rest and he will keep on loving him till tyrannosauruses come falling down the sky with pink parachutes. Then he proceeds to have a panic attack because  shit . he loves Arthur and he has no idea what to do with it. He’s so terrified he runs to the first person that comes to his mind when he thinks about being in love.

Dom’s eyes squint at him. “Eames?”

Before he can say anything, a small hand lands on Eames’ shoulder and hauls him in. “ _ Mon Dieu _ , you look awful,” Mal says and for a moment, Eames is flooded again by an enormous wave of panic. He lets himself be moved around by an increasingly more worried Dom and sits down on the couch.

“I’m in love with Arthur,” he whines, miserable, and slams his head down on the table.

Mal takes one look at him and starts cackling. Dom just sighs and begins patting his hair. “Took you long enough,” he says but keeps rubbing his scalp, so Eames forgives him for being rude. Mal stands up. “You need a drink,” she declares. Eames has never agreed with someone more.

That’s how he ends up, high on fructose on Dom’s table, crushing several old maquettes under his feet in his attempts to plan his declaration of love to Arthur.

“You sound way too much like Shelley,” Dom munches on a slice cold pizza. “Try Neruda, or that other poet you like so much.” Eames stops quoting poetry to take another swig out of the bottle of pomegranate juice. “Who, Shakespeare?”

Yusuf, who joined them three hours ago, groans. “No Shakespeare. Do you  _ want _ to scare him off?”  He picks up his beer (some weird Southern brew that Eames refuses to even look at) and gestures in the air. “No the other one, who wrote about the heart and carrying?”

“E.E Cummings, you bleedin’ genius!” Eames drags him up and crushes him in a slightly-too-tight embrace. Yusuf splutters and everybody is laughing.

Eames is flipping through  poems in the Rolodex of his mind but decides he needs a proper book for this kind of work. Laughter still follows him while he storms off into the night, cold be damned.

He rams his key into the door, gets it wrong the first four tries, and storms through the hallway to the bookshelves in the living room, already knowing what volume he’s looking for. Slamming the light on, he heads straight for the left wall that Arthur has declared the ‘poetry wall.'  Shit , he loves that git and his OCD shelving system.

He’s thumbing through  _ Selected  _ _ Poems _ with  _ 22 and 50 _ tucked in his armpit when a rough voice from the couch groans. “Eames?”

“The one and only, darling,” he grins while scanning over words. A shoe hits him on the back of his head, and he drops the book.

“Shite, what the fuck?”

Arthur swings his legs over the couch and folds his arms in front of his chest. “You’re an asshole,” he says, consonants spread out and vowels even flatter than usual. “You’re drunk,” Eames says instead a reaction.

Arthur does something that could be described as jazz hands, but Eames can’t think of a universe in which stick-in-the-mud Arthur Levine would do something as jazz hands. “Sharp as always, Mr. Eames,” his voice hurt and cold. Eames walks towards him.

“Arthur, what the fuck is going on here? Why are you this pissed? Pissed here meant in the drunk way, not the Americanism for angry.”

The glare Arthur throws at him would frighten the hell out of any normal person. Lucky for him, Eames never had a lot of normal in him. Or sanity. He approaches Arthur and drops the other book to the floor even though it physically pains him. “You went away,” Arthur says, accusation clear in his voice, “You went away for the whole night and didn’t even text and now you just stumble into the apartment and-”  

He shakes his head like it would help him to rearrange his messy thoughts and Eames lets his words sink in.

“I was at Dom’s.” He stares at Arthur’s dark hair, at the lock that has decided to fall over his forehead in a quiet act of defiance against the oppressive gel holding the rest of his family into place. “Were you worried? Is this where all this  shit is about? You could have just called, you know.” Arthur looks away to hide his embarrassment and something in his voice cracks when he mumbles; “Yeah, I guess I could’ve.”

They sit in silence for a while, before Eames picks up the books and goes to sit next to Arthur. “I went away and you just decided to drink three-quarters of a bottle of scotch by yourself?” When he doesn’t answer, Eames wraps an arm around him.

“Bad day then, love?”

“You have no idea,” Arthur’s response is muffled in the fabric covering Eames’ shoulder. Eames quietly aches for him while suppressing the urge to press a kiss on the dark head resting on his shoulder.

“ _ The wheel is come full circle: I am here _ ,” he says and Arthur jumps up from the couch. Eames immediately tries to get as far from him as possible, fearing for another hit. Arthur throws his hands in the air and yells, pure frustration leaving his body. “Stop, just, stop doing that!”

“Doing what?”

Arthur pulls on his own hair. “That thing where you act all amazing and quote Shakespeare and then leave! Just, I can’t handle it anymore!”

Eames gapes at him. “When have I ever done that?” he says, a bit angry now, too. Arthur just stares at him. “You really don’t remember, do you?”

Eames is frantically searching his memory for an instant where he’s ever quoted Shakespeare and left. "The afternoon with your  cat ?" In the silence that follows his question, Arthur’s expression crumples with emotion.

“The first night we met,” his voice is soft, vulnerable. It pains Eames just to listen to him. “You stood below the balcony and quoted Romeo and Juliet at me, you pulled yourself up and after that-” his voice hitches and Eames fears for the worst. Arthur turns away. “You kissed me” he snaps, “you kissed me and jumped off, you  _ left _ , and at the apartment meeting, you didn’t even talk to me.”

Eames has just  realised he’s the biggest fucking moron in the entire universe, but Arthur doesn’t stop there, oh no. Snorting, he sneers. “I thought you probably said those things to anyone attractive enough to live up to your standards or smart enough to rival you, and you were ashamed that I was neither of those things because I’m Arthur, just Arthur.” The last bit is forced out past icy lips and Eames has never hated himself as much as this moment.

He’s still sitting on the couch, but stands up, carefully comes closer.

“Arthur...”

Arthur looks at him, eyes dark and hurt and for the first time in his life, Eames doesn’t have a quote to fix things. His mum used to say he could charm the crown off the queen’s silver hair, but he has the feeling that no amount of charm in the world would help him with getting Arthur to look at him, to chase away all the ice that surrounds them.

He’s still frozen in that same spot when Arthur storms out, slamming the door behind him with the force of all the words he hasn’t said.

***

Eames has never felt this miserable in his _ life _ .

He wished he somehow was prepared for it, for the impact Arthur would make on him. God, Arthur, who grew into every single one of his nooks and crannies. Who is now at Ariadne’s place, presumably to never talk to Eames ever again.

For all the care Eames usually puts in his I-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude, he actually gives many fucks, all the time. For Arthur, those fucks multiply exponentially, explosively, and Eames doesn’t know how to make things right. How to fix what he broke.

Mal ends up on his doorstep and for a moment Eames fears for his vital organs, but she just holds up a bottle of wine. Of course she then proceeds to punch him with it, but not as hard as she could’ve, which he counts as a win.

When he’s on his way to being properly pissed, Mal pulls out a crossword from between the couch. “Shit, Arthur leaves those things  _ partout _ ,” she says and in a flash Arthur’s absence is a fucking huge elephant in the room they’ve only just decided to serve for dinner.

She sees his face and makes a sound somewhere in her throat. “I’ll call the boys,” she says and Eames has never been more grateful for anything, ever.

Guinevere has chosen that moment to go and live on his chest, but Eames doesn’t mind. She’s a piece of Arthur. He loves everything Arthur. She purrs while he strokes and coos at her. When Robert walks in fifteen minutes later with a bottle of scotch and 10 Things I Hate About You, he’s not crying. Just, allergic to  cat hair.

“C’mon, let’s get your sorry ass up, then.” Robert curls two hands under his armpits and hauls him upright. Gwen makes an insulted sound, but Robert has already replaced her with the bottle of whiskey.

“Time to get you drunk,” he says. When he catches Eames’ desperate expression, his face softens.

“We’ll fix it in the morning. Now first, let’s make you forget.”

***

Arthur has never felt this miserable in his  _ life _ .

He’s baked five tarts, three batches of brownies, blueberry muffins, chocolate muffins, banana-peanut butter muffins, three carrot cakes and his raspberry-chocolate cookies, and he still doesn’t feel better.

“Not that I don’t appreciate all the baked goods,” Ariadne starts, “but you do  realize that my apartment only has limited space?”

She pushes  _ The New York Times _ a little bit closer towards him. “Here, make a crossword. God knows they’ll make you feel better.”

“I don’t want to feel better,” Arthur says. “This feeling is probably the only thing left that’s from him.” God, he sounds like a teenager. Like some kind of Bella Swan wannabe. He thuds his head on the table.

“Does it always feel like this?”

Ariadne pulls the paper away. “What, heartbreak? Well, usually there are less pastries and a little bit more ice cream and alcohol, but apart from that I fear I’ll have to say, yes, it does.”

He’s been at Ariadne’s place for four days now, and he hates it. He wants his  cat , his books, his clothes, his kitchen and his Eames. Who is not his Eames, because Arthur is a little bitch who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Fuck, he’s so stupid.

“I lost him, Ari,” he moans into the wood of the table. Ariadne strokes his hair, fingers raking through the hairs on his nape. “No, you didn’t. Art. The guy is completely stupid for you.”

Arthur makes a pathetic noise that he will deny till his dying days, and then the doorbell rings. Ariadne stands up, and Arthur pays no attention to anything except to his own messy feelings until he catches fragments of the conversation.

“You better not come in...Still a little bit fragile.” There’s the rustling of clothes and footsteps and Eames is standing in front of him, without jacket or shoes, panting and clutching a bouquet of sunflowers. Arthur just stares and tries to keep all his feelings in check.

He gives up and punches Eames square in the face.

“Ah, what the fuck?” Eames splutters, dropping the flowers. “I mean, not that I didn’t deserve that,” he continues, eyes avoiding Arthur. There’s blood dripping from his nose and his hair is windswept, messy as if he has combed his hands through it.

Eames picks up the flowers and holds them up in Arthur’s direction. “Look, I know I’ve been a twat. And I’m sorry for consuming too much alcohol on New Year’s Eve and not remembering kissing you, but Arthur I-” his voice trails off and everything in the room is more interesting than Arthur’s eyes, or so it seems.

He takes the flowers and plunks them down on the table. Eames is very loveable, but Arthur is pissed and confused and doesn’t know what to do.

“Get to the point, Eames.”

“What I’m meaning to say is that the apartment is terribly empty without you, and Gwenny is missing you and I can’t mock anyone for eating waffles anymore because _ there is no one who eats them _ ,” they’re standing a lot closer than Arthur remembers, but that doesn’t matter because Eames is still talking. “What I’m trying to say is; I miss you, fuck, I love you. Please come back?”

Arthur’s breath is caught in his throat. “You what?” He can’t be sure, can never be too sure. He has imagined this so many times that it could very well be a flour-induced hallucination, inflicted upon him by his own subconscious.

“I love you,” Eames says, looking increasingly more nervous by the minutes. “I love you and I was an absolute dick and please, please forgive me?”

It feels like the climax, like some tipping point he’s been waiting for, and Arthur knows what to do. He strides over to Eames, who shuffles back, probably thinking he’s going to hit him again.

Arthur curls a hand in the collar of his atrocious shirt and pulls. They’re nose-to-nose, and Eames smells of coffee and lemon soap. Arthur leans in, and right before their lips touch, Eames backs away a little.

“Guess this means I’m forgiven?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Come here, you fucking idiot.” But right before he kisses Eames, he whispers; “Love you too,” and swallows the content noise that’s made in response.

*** 

“One across, eleven letters; crush. It has an f in it,” Arthur frowns down from where this morning’s crossword has been challenging him.

“Infatuation,” Eames breathes in his ear, and tackles him back into the bed.

Arthur smiles under Eames’ lips. “Some infatuation, indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> This story was partly inspired by gyzym's fantastic story I've Got Nothing To Do Today Today But Smile (The Only Living Boy In New York) which is way better than my attempt at writing these nerds and you should all definitely read


End file.
